


all that's left are your bones

by metalmeisje



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Gen, Shadow of Israphel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 11:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4390538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalmeisje/pseuds/metalmeisje
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn’t meant to be a hero, always denied that very fact; but right here, with the sun beating down on him and not a trace of civilization left because everything has been buried in an early grave, he realizes once more that he never had a choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that's left are your bones

**Author's Note:**

> Small thing inspired by a song and vague SoI feelings. Character death. Not very happy. I'm... not sure what this is, actually, but I'm quite content with it.

_troubled spirits on my chest  
where they laid to rest._

It's  _everywhere._ Literally bloody everywhere. Xephos has to squint against the harsh sunlight, one hand over his eyes offering little relief but it’s just enough to see by. The light dances over the landscape, unforgiving and sharp, and the air in his lungs feels so thick and heavy that it’s almost like breathing underwater. As far as he can see, the world seems to shimmer, heat rising up from the scorching sand and playing tricks on his eyes. It’s quiet, too; or maybe it’s because he hasn’t heard anything other than the howling wind for hours now, a storm whipping up the grains of sand that cut into every bare inch of skin until he’s almost numb with it.

As slippery as his palms are, dirty and scraped and the salt of his sweat stinging every cut and burst blister, he clings to the leather grip of his sword as if it’s a life buoy, a sad relic of an old world that is torn to pieces and the only thing standing between him and the fight he  _knows_ is waiting somewhere in the dunes that seem to twist and turn with tainted magic.

He’s not sure what he’s fighting for, any more. All he knows is that a fight is all he has left, the only thing keeping the exhaustion at bay that has sunken into his bones. It’s the only motivation for dragging one foot in front of the other as the sand whips up around his boots in small storms mimicking the one around him, stuck to the soles of his shoes and making them seem so much heavier than they are. Or maybe it’s just the weight of the world that he failed to protect. He wasn’t meant to be a hero, always denied that very fact; but right here, with the sun beating down on him and not a trace of civilization left because everything has been buried in an early grave, he realizes once more that he never had a choice.

He lost Honeydew a while back, now.

Maybe his bones will be bleached by the sun as the hours will turn to days to weeks, picked clean by the vultures that Xephos assumes are somewhere just out of sight, just waiting for the dust to settle so they can start their meal. There had been no time to bury his oldest friend, to give him back to the earth that he had traded for adventure so long ago, and maybe that’s the worst part of all. He deserved better than that.

Somewhere between the first and the hundredth dune, Xephos can no longer take another step and kneels in the sand, fingers gripping his sword so tightly that he doesn’t think he can let go anymore even if he wanted to. Sweat and possibly  _probably_ blood dripping in his eyes make it impossible to see, and even though his chest expands with every heaving breath, he’s not sure he’s getting any air because his lungs burn with heat and sand that never stop assaulting him. He misses the cool quiet of the night and even though he loved the stars, once, the only one in the painfully blue sky right now is as much an enemy as the demon they’d been forced to chase.

After an eternity there’s  _finally_ a shadow, even if it provides little relief from the violent desert, and Xephos lets his head fall back to face the figure looming over him.

He’d expected some conversation. They’d been toyed with and taunted so often, that first time so very long ago, that everything in him is braced for an argument even though he’s not sure he can get his dry tongue to move enough to get the words out. But nothing comes, only silence, and he realizes that they were not the only ones who’d learnt a thing or two from the first War. Nothing comes and Xephos closes his eyes to shut out the world, because as much as he wanted  _needed_ a fight, there is nothing left.

It’s over so quickly that he is disappointed in himself.

The sound of a blade ripping through flesh breaks the silence and the spaceman gasps, twitching at the unexpected pain that rips through him. His eyes snap open, just long enough to see someone looking down at him with an expression he cannot quite place, and then everything blurs and the sand finally settles. There’s a wetness on his chest and it might be blood but Xephos doesn’t look, wincing only a little when he slumps forward. The shadow stays, for a while; it watches silently as the light in its enemy’s eyes flickers desperately, a small fleck of blue in the pale yellow endlessness that surrounds them. Then he leaves and all Xephos has left is the blinding light and the desert and its warm embrace. Torrents of sand wrap around him, curl around his legs and try to work their way into his mouth like tiny daggers cutting into dry flesh, and he’s pretty sure it’s even in his lungs but it doesn’t really matter much.

A fight was all he had left, but he was denied even that.

_the birds all left, my tall friend  
as your body hit the sand_


End file.
